Every Student's Dream
by Argentine Rose
Summary: How do you get every student in Paris together for police surveillance? Agent Rougemont - inspired by Grantaire - has a plan involving opera, free oranges and a certain famous courtesan. But can he get Javert to agree to it? V silly story FINISHED
1. Default Chapter

'Please get your mind up out of the gutter and back to the job in hand.' Rougemont could almost hear the voice of his superior officer intoning one of his more annoying stock phrases. What was the other stupid one he was so fond of? Ah - 'The Majesty of The Law'. Sometimes Rougemont thought if he heard that one again he would go quite mad. He and Jean-Marie had ended up making a joke of it, seeing how many times they could fit it into conversation without anyone noticing. And more irritating than either of these things was what would happen if you presumed to talk during a briefing

'Rougemont?'

He'd look at you like a deranged cocker spaniel until you looked back and answered 'Yes Sir?'

'What is the Inspector doing, Rougemont?'

'He's talking, Sir'

'Indeed. And when the Inspector is talking we are doing what?'

'Listening, Sir?'

'Yes, Rougemont. When the Inspector is talking we are listening.'

Once Rougemont had made the very grave mistake of muttering under his breath, 'Yeah, but when is the Inspector not talking?' Instantaneously three pairs of glaring. Superior officer type eyes were trained on him. Sergeant Jolivet (stupid pretty boy) had simply looked shocked and not very scary, whereas Sergeant Pontellier, he of the annoying verbal tic, had gone off on a long rant about insubordinate behaviour and how it undermined The Majesty of The Law'. However, it was the Inspector who had really scared him - something about those creepy grey eyes. He had just looked at Rougemont and curled his thin lips as if to say 'Your stupidity is such that I cannot even bring myself to make a response.'. On the bright side, this meant there was something that could move Inspector Javert to silence, and so Rougemont continued to act the fool.

Which, he reflected, had done him no harm in the long run. Being cheeky had got him into the force in the first place - turn up, ask for a job, smile a bit and Claude's your uncle (or Auntie in his case - Mme Claudette Henry). Rougemont had spent two happy years working for the morals brigade, where the gutter was exactly where they wanted his mind to be, before being transferred to general duties based at Rue Pontoise. Not great, but you got a certain cachet from working under old man Javert, a mixture of awe and sympathy from your brother officers which went some way towards making up for Javert's high expectations and interminable monologues. Suddenly Rougemont felt a sharp dig in the ribs

"Wake up Joseph," Grantaire hissed, "SHE will be on in a minute. Wouldn't want to miss it."

Rougemont settled back into the theatre seat and smiled to himself. In the end his smart mouth had paid off again. It had been a couple of day after he'd made the remark about Javert always talking that the Inspector had called him into his office. Rougemont had fully expected to be handed his dismissal papers and had entered the room with considerable trepidation. Javert had merely leant back on his chair, smiled nastily and said, "We've gone political Rougemont".

Rougemont had winced in confusion. Did the old devil really have to play games with him?  
  
"I'm sorry Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I don't understand"

"Political; adjective - 'pertaining to politics'. You see, in this country we have a government. There's a king and . . ." Old habits die hard and Rougemont stopped listening at this point. When he finally decided to pay attention again the Inspector was staring at him fixedly.  
  
"Well, Rougemont?"

"Well what, Monsieur l'Inspecteur?"

"Are you prepared to accept the assignment I'm offering you?"

"Which would involve what precisely, Monsieur l'Inspecteur?"

"As I have already explained, going undercover as a student in order to obtain information about possible revolutionary political groups and reporting back to me at periodic intervals."

Rougemont was sure it must be Christmas, "Of course, Monsieur l'Inspecteur!"

"Good. So nice that we've finally found a use for you. Although I hope I'm not going to regret this. Dismissed."

And so it was that Joseph Rougemont found himself (under the alias of Joseph-Marie Nouis) sitting in a seat at Les Varietes, amongst new friends, waiting for the celebrated Olympia to appear on stage. Oh, and the government was paying. What a lovely evening this was turning out to be.  
Still grinning, he turned to Grantaire.

"Well, I wish they'd hurry up and start. No-one's here for all this boring pre-show circus nonsense and they know it. Why bother?"

"Concur. Still, we must be philosophical about such things. The pleasure of seeing the divine Mlle Olympia must be paid for some how. And Jehan seems to be enjoying himself."

Rougemont looked around at his companions. Jean Prouvaire was watching the stage with rapt attention, Courfeyrac was fiddling with his programme and Bossuet had apparently wandered off to buy oranges. Sometimes - often - Rougemont felt extremely guilty about betraying these young men he called friends. He had become acquainted with them through Bahorel and had masqueraded as a member of a recently defunct revolutionary cell, and first year lawyer. He had quickly become real friends with Grantaire and Bossuet. In fact he liked them all, with the exception of Enjolras (rather too reminiscent of Inspector Javert for comfort). . Sometimes he wondered what he would do when the time came to turn his friends in. Would he be able to betray them? He secretly hoped that he would be able to talk them out of doing anything seriously revolutionary and thus avoid the issue - although he doubted his ability to achieve this end with Enjolras, Combeferre or Feuilly. He was roused from his reveries by another sharp jab in the ribs from Grantaire.  
"Now. I think she's going to come on now!"

And so she did. Mlle Olympia herself, fairest and most famous courtesan in Paris was welcomed onto the stage with a universal intake of breath followed by spontaneous applause. This was her first stage appearance in a year (she had travelled Europe with her lover, the Vicomte D'Herouville) and it seemed that the audience were more than pleased to welcome 'The Rose of Pantin' back. She stepped gracefully to the front of the stage, the limelights making her sequinned dress sparkle like first frost, and said in a melodious voice  
  
"Welcome my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. Before we begin I would like to trespass on your patience for just long enough to both describe my delight at being here and to respectfully dedicate this production, at the behest of the composer, to her Grace Madame La Comtesse de Chagny"

She was, put simply, the single most beautiful thing Rougemont had ever seen in his life. Thick black hair piled in intricate knots and curls about her fine face. Wide green eyes fringed with black lashes. Her skin was dazzlingly white, complemented perfectly by the dress of russet silk and sequins whose sleeves sat almost indecently low on her shoulders. Rougemont could not help but wish it would hurry up and slip off altogether. Grantaire leant over and remarked in an awed whisper, "Pardieu, more than worth the wait!"


	2. Chapter 2

All good things must come to an end, so they say, and Rougemont had never understood the expression quite as perfectly as he did this morning. Last night's festivities had evaporated with the morning dew and now Rougemont was 'back on the chain gang' so to speak. A briefing at Rue Pontoise was never his idea of a good time, but a briefing at Rue Pontoise headed by Jolivet, who expected him to make constructive suggestions despite his being hung over and lovesick, well . . . Frankly that was justification for suicide. The dreadful February weather - freezing and with the rain coming down in ropes - did nothing to lift his spirits. No. 14, Rue Pontoise was one of those badly designed buildings than are made unbearable by any slight caprice of the weather. Today it managed to be both ridiculously cold and unbearable damp. The erratic behaviour of the stoves didn't help in the slightest. Rougemont supposed this to be the reason behind Javert's absence. He was probably engaged in the running battle with the heating which he pursued with almost as much vigour as his ongoing war against the forces of crime. Although Rougemont was grateful for the Inspector's concern - soon the stoves would be back up and running (for about a fortnight, before moving on to 'too hot', 'dangerous' and 'busted again' in a cycle only to be broken when they were switched off for good in April) - he couldn't help but wish the Inspector present. Not from any innate love of the man's company, you understand, but simply because Jolivet was making such a terrible job of things. Despite being long winded, Javert's briefings were always at least interesting and informative. Rougemont looked around at the troop of bored faces grouped around the table. Pontellier was leaning back on his chair, looking at Jolivet through narrowed eyes and picking lint of his uniform in a conspicuously bored manner. There was really not much love lost between the two handsome Sergeants - Le Blond and Le Brune they were nicknamed, after the popular song.  
  
"So, er, what the Prefect wants is the opportunity to, well, to observe the Parisian student body as a whole, both the subversive and the . . .the . . the not subversive. If anyone has any ideas on how we could do this . . .anyone at all?"

Vavasseur sneezed, Pasteur stifled a yawn. Relieved that it wasn't just him that would rather be anywhere but here, Rougemont began to daydream. His reverie, of course, centred on the divine Olympia. The details probably aren't necessary here. Suffice to say Rougemont's mind was considerable occupied with Olympia's black hair and white skin but not at all with her russet dress. He thought of a comment Grantaire had made the night before "I really can't think of anything I wouldn't give to see Olympia naked". What wouldn't he give to see

"Olympia naked", he murmured absently

That really hadn't been meant for public consumption. Everyone in the room stared at him as if he'd just flung a dead rat into the centre of the table. There was a moment of perfect crystalline silence, and then Pontellier drawled  
  
"Thank you for that insight into your squalid little mind Rougemont, we all truly appreciated it. If you have any more brilliant ideas do be sure to let us know"

Now was the time for some seriously quick thinking. Rougemont breathed in deeply and prepared to dig himself out of the pit.  
  
"I only meant that . . .well, Olympia naked would get every student in Paris together."

"I think we all know what you meant, you guttersnipe - " Jolivet interjected in a prissy, irritated sort of voice.  
  
"Now now Sergeant Jolivet, hold your horses a moment.", came a voice from the door. They turned and saw Javert, leaning on the doorframe and running a finger absently through his sidewhiskers. None of them had noticed him, although he had clearly been there for some time. Stepping into the room and sitting down, he continued.  
  
"After all, Rougemont probably has the best insight into the student mind out of all of us -"

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur will recall that I was a law student myself once." Pontellier protested

"Yes, and you've grown up considerably since then. And I don't notice anyone's come up with anything better in all the time you've been fannying around in here. Carry on lad."

Grateful that the Inspector had scented an idea where the others had only found an obscenity, Rougemont began to spin as he never spun before.  
  
"Well, what I was thinking was this. We want every student in Paris together, right? So we can observe them, take a look at which ones seem to be - undesirable. But we also want to observe them in their natural state, right? At their ease. I was thinking, what's the one thing guaranteed to get any student - any young man at all - to come along and be in a good mood? Why, the most beautiful woman in France with no clothes on. I'm not sure how we'll get Olympia to take her clothes off for us - "

"Oh, I'm sure I can find a way of persuading her." Javert said with a strange sort of half smile. Rougemont looked at him enquiringly, but the Inspector seemed disinclined to expand on this cryptic statement so he carried on.  
  
"I'm sure it will work then. I was having a conversation along these lines with one of the subversives only last night."

"Speaking of subversives - do you have this week's report for me, Rougemont? The Superintendent wants to see it."  
  
Rougemont handed the document over.  
  
"Thank you. I'll take it over now and see what he has to say about this little bagatelle whilst I'm there. Keep thinking."

With that he left, pausing to pass an enquiring hand over the top of the stove and frown as he did so.  
  
"Now, one important question; is Olympia the most beautiful woman in France?' It's something I would hotly contest." Pontellier remarked, appearing perfectly happy to go along with the idea now it had been endorsed by the Inspector. In fact, his usually acerbic manner had mellowed and he seemed rather affable. His comment produced a good ten minutes of noisy arguing amongst the men an the relative merits of Olympia compared to Lune-de-Miel, La Polonaise, Rosalinde and 'that blonde girl who waits tables chez Michel'.  
  
"Olympia is a goddess!", Rougemont proclaimed theatrically (clearly Grantaire was catching), "but I still don't see how we're going to get hr to take her clothes off."

"Yeah," Vavasseur chipped in, "I mean, the Inspector's brilliant in his own mad sort of way, but he doesn't exactly have a way with the ladies." This comment raised a few sniggers

"Oh, he knows her." Pontellier said as casually as one might remark on the weather.

Rougemont could almost feel his jaw drop. The Inspector knew Olympia! Rougemont knew that she had been a streetwalker before becoming successful. Meaning there were only two ways Javert could have met her, neither of them appealing

"Javert knows Olympia?" he said stupidly

"Yeah, they've got a history," said Pontellier with barely concealed laughter.  
  
"God yes," exclaimed an old hand named Minot, "they hate each other don't they?"

"Cordial dislike might be a better way of putting it"

"I really fail to see how that helps though Sir. And how does he know her?" Rougemont asked with morbid curiosity.  
  
"Who taught Olympia to sing?"

"Gloriana" said Rougemont, who, when it came to Olympia, knew his stage trivia.  
  
"Indeed."

"A sad loss to the stage". reflected Minot.  
  
"Quite - though I doubt she's missing us as much as we're missing her. Anyway, the Inspector met Olympia through Gloriana", continued Pontellier  
  
"And how does he know her?!" Rougemont suddenly felt that he understood all the unfairness life had to offer. That a man like Javert should know (however you meant the word) two such legends of the Parisian stage - it was just wrong!  
"Is there something he's not telling us about how he spends his spare time?!"  
  
Everyone in the office erupted into laughter and groans of mock disgust.  
  
"Not a picture I wanted in my head mate!" guffawed Jean-Marie Bonnet.  
  
"Quite the jealous lover aren't you? Now use your brains lads - can you really see Inspector Javert entangled with a courtesan? She was Javert's neighbour before she became Gloriana."

Frankly Rougemont was more disturbed by the idea that Javert had not got involved with these women when given half a chance than by the idea that he had been involved with them.  
  
"Olympia's a right cow but there's one person she'll do anything for - Nana. That's who M'sieur Javert will be asking.". He paused before adding fondly, "Nana's great - gets my vote for most beautiful woman in France every time."

"Nana?"

"Marianna Tellford as was - Nana to her friends - that's Gloriana's real name. Knew her quite well before she got all gentrified" Seeing Rougemont's disbelieving face he added tauntingly, "I've met Olympia too - didn't like her much."

Rougemont felt he was going mad. How could Pontellier - who, despite his good looks, was well on the way to bachelorhood a la mode de Javert - dismiss the Rose of Pantin with the words 'right cow - didn't like her much' ?


	3. Chapter 3

Comissaire Simonet, although nearly seventy, was even more enthusiastic about the plan than Javert (I will leave the reader to imagine his reasons) and together they managed to persuade the Prefect. So, as the weeks wore on, an air of smugness began to settle over the Rue Pontoise post like a mist.. Not only did they have the best Comissaire, the most talented Inspector and their own personal superiority to the men working in other patches, they now had The Plan. The younger officers took to regarding with superior pity those of their counterparts not of Pontoise ('Pontaise' as they jokingly called it). They dropped cryptic hints about the 'very important and exciting political task' they were engaged in that 'any man would give his right arm to be involved in - not that anyone could do it, y'know!' Even Javert - usually restrained when it came to such childish displays - had been pulling much the same act on his rival, Inspector Daguerre of Place de Chatelet. In fact, Javert begun to be uncharacteristically cheerful (although he did not deign to disclose why), a fact which helped to contribute to a sort of carnival air at 14 Rue Pontoise. There was a sort of Christmas Eve expectancy over proceedings and Rougemont found himself enjoying his job more and more  
Which was fortunate, as he was now required to spend more time working as ' Joseph Rougemont of the Paris Prefacture' rather than as 'Joseph-Marie Nouis, law student'. His friends, principally Grantaire, complained of never seeing him, but there was simply so much to be organised that he had to satisfy them with vague mutters of 'protests from the parents . . Must work . . Delvincourt's on my arse' Despite this, Javert obviously still expected his detailed weekly report on revolutionary student life to be just as detailed and weekly as ever.  
One afternoon as Joseph was leaving the police post to meet Grantaire and the others at the Corinth, Javert stopped him and handed him a letter.

"In here are your instructions for the next step on 'Bagatelle'."

Javert now habitually referred to the operation as bagatelle so Rougemont did not bat an eyelid at his. He had found he was becoming more used to the Inspector's highly individual diction now anyway.

"You're to do precisely what it says on the first note - don't open the second one - there's nothing very complex involved. You're to go and see Count Vito Montenotte. He lives the top end of Rivoli - you know where I mean? You're to go todat if possible. Anyway, it's all in the letter - slightly irregular procedure, but on a job like this that's to be expected."

"Is the letter from M Gisquet, Sir?"

Rougemont asked but by that time Javert had wandered back into his office muttering darkly about Bernadot the stove fitter.  
  
Upon reflection, Rougemont decided that the letter was indeed from M Gisquet. The handwriting was completely different from either Simonet's thick scrawl or Javert's angular and ornate hand - it was soft, almost womanish, but purposeful. And since he was too lowly to have ever encountered and example of the prefect's hand before beginning 'Bagatelle' that is what he assumed it to be.  
'Well,' he thought to himself 'I am going up in the world!' He had noticed that both Javert and Pontellier had started to treat him with a new respect also, which was cheering (although Jolivet was just as prissy as ever)

Cheered by these thoughts Rougemont made his way to the supper at The Corinth. So lost was he in the thought that life was finally exposing a silver lined to him that he completely forgot the Inspector's injunction to try and visit Montenotte that night.  
  
Arriving in the Corinth he found his friends in a hubbub of tipsy excitement grouped around a copy of Revue Des Deux Mondes.  
  
"No! It can't be Bossuet - you lie!" cried a disbelieving Courfeyrac

"I solemnly swear that is what it says Armand!"

"Oh give it here!". Combeferre snatched the paper and began to read aloud; "The celebrated Vito Montenotte and the incomparably Olympia look set to present the Parisian theatre-going public with a new spectacular - the likes of which they have never known before. After their fruitful recent collaboration on the comic 'Widow of Brest' the composer and his muse are embarking upon a more daring project. Montenotte's new opera is to be based upon the legend of Dr Faustus and Mlle Olympia is to play Helen of Troy - a role in which, it is rumoured, she will be required to pass across the stage naked"  
  
Combeferre then proceeded to read, in a silly voice, the rest of the article which concerned the outrage of some fuddy-duddy clergyman or the other on the subject.  
Noticing that Joseph had arrived he turned to him and said, "Well, what do you make of that my friend?"

"Oh," said Rougemont in a tone of lordly indifference, "I already knew."

"How?" asked Combeferre, slack jawed.  
  
"Oh, I have ways" he replied smugly. Perhaps a little too smugly but he couldn't help himself. If you couldn't indulge in a guilty pleasure now and then why go on living?  
  
"You are such a windbag Joseph!" exclaimed Grantaire. "' 'I have ways!' just listen to him - y'would think he was Vidocq the way he talks! You only know because you read the paper this morning."

"Did not - I've know for weeks" Not a word of a lie there.  
  
"How - did a gypsy read your fortune?" Grantaire laughed.  
  
'Oh, you don't know the half of it' thought Rougemont with a smirk.  
  
"How could you possibly know - tell me how!"

"I know her." said Rougemont without being able to stop himself, "I know Olympia"

He knew that this was entirely the wrong thing to say, but it was also a lot more impressive that saying 'I know a man who lived next door to a woman who knows her'  
Most of the people in the room looked incredulous, Grantaire merely smiled a wolfish, ironic smile and said, very calmly,

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove you know Olympia. I bet you can't do it. In fact, I bet you a case of claret that you can't do it"

"Fine, I accept the bet - I'm quite partial to claret" said Rougemont with equal coolness.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre looked at him, clearly impressed by his display of sang-froid.  
And, because he was an artist when it came to braggadocio, Rougemont added gaily,  
"I can get you all tickets too - front row at the Opéra"

"Just so long as the orange-sellers there charge less than at the bloody Varietés," said Bossuet, grumbling to hide his pleasure, " Utterly outrageous the prices they charge!"

" When you've all finished" came the rather exasperated voice of Enjolras. "Before you all started being nonsensical we were discussing a meeting with that group from the Barriere du Maine - "

"You can't honestly tell us that you're not excited by the prospect of a naked Olympia" said Grantaire with a wink.  
  
"I can honestly tell you that I am not excited by the prospect of a naked Olympia. I think you're all being completely ridiculous."

"Does that mean you wont want a ticket for the opening night?" said Rougemont with a faux-innocent look.  
  
" I think I can guarantee that I'll have better things to do. Moving on - "

"To the Bouillabaisse!" Sighed Grantaire as Enjolras was interrupted once again by the arrival of their meal.


	4. Chapter 4

Rougemont woke up feeling not too worse for wear, as such things go, but none the less half an hour later than usual. He pulled on his britches and an old brown coat, yelled goodbye to his mother (his aunt having long since left for the Conciergerie), stuffed his hat on his head and began automatically to walk in the direction of the Rue Pontoise.

Mentally reviewing the events of the night before he smiled at the students' incredulous reaction to the newspaper article (Vavasseur had had a fine time feeding that one to the journalist over several bottles of wine). His bet with Grantaire was, perhaps, not entirely sensible, but on the whole last night had been good. Last night had been a success. Last night had been . . . And with two street of the Rue Pontoise Rougemont stopped dead and smacked his palm against his forehead. Last night had been . . . not allowed! Now he remembered – the letter, Javert's orders, Vito Montenotte. He raced home, changed into his respectable blue coat, re-read the letter to check the address and sprinted off to the Rue de Rivoli as fast as total lack of physical fitness would allow him.

He arrived, hot and panting, and presented himself to the porter who dismissed him with a look that rendered words unnecessary. Annoyed, but admitting that he did not look like the most promising candidate for entry into a Count's drawing room, he presented the man with his police card.

"You were meant to come yesterday." The porter said with less warmth than a glacier; "Still, the Count may have time to see you now. Wait there."

Crossing his fingers and saying a silent prayer, Rougemont waited for the porter to return. Eventually, he did so, accompanied by a liveried manservant.

"Go with Bernadot – he'll show you upstairs."

Bernadot made a head gesture to indicate that Joseph was to follow him, and strode off. Just inside the entrance to the Count's apartments he said tersely: "Wait here" and abandoned Rougemont in the vestibule to stare at his feet and examine the pattered on the aubasson rug. He could hear Bernadot whispering in a tone that was both discreet and unimpressed. This was followed by a voluble burst of Italian from someone Rougemont took to be the Count.

"Si. Si, Si! Mostrilo dentro, idiota! In Italia non lasciarno nostri ospitis che si levane in piedi fuori sulla via!"

"Ma he's nel corridoio, signore." Replied Brnadot's sulky voice.

Rougemont heard what he thought was the sound of a cane being smacked into someone's shins.

"Fuori con di voi e mostrilo dentro! Rapidamente!"

The vestibule door opened. "Come through," said a very resentful looking Bernadot. Rougemont stepped into the salon, slightly overawed by the décor (ostentatious, Rococo) and came face to face with the Count. He was in his middle thirties, a head shorter than Rougemont and had the aspect of a bon viveur. He was extremely well dressed, but with a slight effeminacy that whispered to Rougemont (after two years with the morals brigade) 'third sex'. Although, perhaps, he was overreacting to the sight of someone who was clean, well groomed and fashionably dressed – having Courfeyrac as your model of sartorial perfection could do strange things to a man.

The Count addressed him in a noisily jovial and heavily accented voice.

"Come een, come een! Bienvenuto Sergeant. . .?"

"Rougemont, Monsieur le Comte."

"Rougemont? Monterossi! Splendid!" cried the little man, clapping his hands in delight. "A fine pair we are in this . . . enterprise. You should have come yesterday, no?"

Rougemont lowered his gaze.

"Ah, no matter. I had unexpected guests – see how the Signore works things out for the best."

"I have a letter for you Monsieur le Comte," said Rougemont, fishing in his pocket for the thing, "It's from Monsieur Gisquet."

Montenotte took the letter (a very thick one) and began to read it, chuckling to himself.

"Gisquet indeed! Heh heh! Most of this should really go to Signore Jospin."

Montenotte strode over to the piano stool, fanning out the skirts of his coat as he say and perused the rest of the letter through his lorgnettes.

"Seet down while I finish this, Monterossi."

Greatly surprised at this mark of condescension Rougemont backed into the nearest chair, knocking over a small lacquered card table in the process. Count Montenotte looked up, chuckled again and set the table back on its feet

"Well, I can see that Javert has taught you nothing at all! 'E normally does better weeth 'ees pupils."

Just then there came the sound of a very strident female voice from the vestibule in counterpoint with the protests of the unfortunate Bernadot.

"I don't care when I'm expected! I'm here now and I will be seen now! You insolent lump – do you think I'm some rag picker from Saint-Sulpice to be kept waiting?"

"But he has company, Mademoiselle."

"Well, bollocks to that! Company my foot! I'm not being kept here for some pretty little rent boy. Out of my way, Bernadot!"

The Count went slightly white.

"Signorina Olympia! She does not care to wait or to meet weeth 'er public. You, up!"

The Count grabbed Rougemont by the back of his coat and dragged him behind one of the ornately draped curtains.

"Now, stay 'ere until I tell you, Monterossi. An' don't make a sound unless you want to be able to sing like castrati! Capische?"

At that moment Olympia swept into the room (Bernadot remained outside it, groaning slightly).

"Mornin' Vito! Have you got my score for me?"'

"As yet, Signorina – "

"You haven't, have you? If you haven't got it then how am I meant to learn it? Rehearsals start in less than a week y'know."

"As yet, Signorina, I have what of the score is written."

"You haven't finishes it yet? But what am I saying? Of course _you _haven't finished it yet. Well, give me what you have then and 'on with the vaudeville!', as Nana would say."

Confused, Rougemont frowned slightly. 'On with the vaudeville' was also one of Javert's favourite expressions.

"Ah si, Nana – she left this for you."

Through a crack in the curtains Rougemont saw the Count hand the courtesan a piece of paper from the top of the piano. She read it, biting her lower lip in concentration.

"Does Gauthier know about this stuff?"

"I theenk Signore Javert will speak to 'im. Eet says there that Javert wants to speak weeth you too."

"Urgh no! I don't want to speak to him – vile, ridiculous man! I've had enough of him to last me a lifetime. Can't he send that very handsome boy instead? What was his name?"

"Auguste"

"Yes – trust you to remember! One at least wants something to look at when being bored to death. Still, these things must be endured – for Nana and against the wretched subversives. What is it these boys believe in? Robespierre? Bounaparte?"

Rougemont noted that Olympia, like his mother and Javert, pronounced the Napoleon's name contemptuously with a 'u'. Clearly Olympia, like many courtesans, was a monarchist.

"The young shouldn't believe in things." Declared the courtesan airily, "They should be wasting their youth on wine and festivities! They should have more important things to think about – like me! Plenty of time for ideas when they grow old and ugly! Oh. By the way, you've made the usual dedication on the piece?"

"To La Comtesse de Chagny, as ever."

In the end Olympia stayed for three hours – Vito taught her her first aria – and Rougemont nearly fainted with cramp. He endeavoured to keep himself sane and conscious three ways. Worrying how he would break the news to Javert that the opera was, as yet, unfinished, thinking of teasing Pontellier with the courtesan's comment about 'the handsome boy' and, principally, worrying how he would get proof of knowing Olympia now he knew how terrifying she could be.

Translates as " Yes, yes yes! Show him in! In Italy we don't leave our guests standing out on the strret" "But he's in the hall, sir" "Off with you and show him in! Quickly!"


	5. Chapter 5

A/N A) The song is by a French singer named Barbara (who I heartily recommend) and B)This story is part of a series of interrelated but possibly contradictory tales, something I really should have said at the beginning

Rougemont stood at the back of the stalls watching the lighting of the chandeliers. The crystal lustres had been polished and now two men with lamplighters' tapers were lighting the candles. H e inhaled deeply. There was a palpable tension in the air. A sharp, pungent aroma of expectancy and excitement. . and oranges. Rougemont had taken Bossuet's complaint seriously and consequently the theatre had been bustle with burly costermongers unloading crates of fruit throughout the afternoon.

"Alright, done here mate - bring 'er up now Jean!" yelled one of the lamplighters and the great central chandelier was winched back up to the ceiling, flashing like a ball of fireflies. Rougemont watched, rapt, until he felt a heavy hand lay on his shoulder.

Starting stupidly, he turned and saw Javert, who had appeared seemingly from no-where in that way he was so good at. Rougemont could never see how he managed it – the man had to be close to two metres tall and was a proper gaillard to boot.

Javert gave a canine grin and scratched under his eyebrow

"You _doing _anything, Rougemont?"

"Er, yes, Sir. I was just – "

"Well, carry on. As I said, I'm glad we found a use to you."

Rougemont naturally assumed that the inspector was being sarcastic and looked at his feet.

"No, really lad – I mean it. The Prefect is very pleased with you. With all of us."

He smiled a thin-lipped, enigmatic smile, crossed his arms over his burly chest and strode off.

"Twenty minutes 'till open!" called a voice from somewhere back in the wings

"Places, places," chuckled Joseph to himself.

It would be fair to say that the audience was as glittering as the chandelier. The theatre was packed with students and their mistresses – young, vibrant, sparkling with vivacity and witticisms. The boxes were full of aristocrats and courtesans, the rich, sleek ornaments of the Monde and Demi-monde too important to be refused a ticket (for, of course, most had been reserved for the use of 'Politically active students'). Even the poor in the cheapest seats seemed to have made a special effort on this night.

Rougemont, Grantaire and Courfeyrac amused themselves by looking around at the chattering, excitable crowd, remarking on the blushing, giggling lorettes and elegant society women. Grantaire was tipsily expounding his new theory of women to his friends.

"Now, there are two types of women – and, by extension, two types of men, since each man goes for either one or the other – "

"Oh, only two types?" laughed Courfeyrac. "So much for nature's infinite variety. What are they then?"

"Well, you can be either a racehorse or a rare orchid man. You, Joseph, are one of the latter since Mlle Olympia is the perfect example of the rare orchid."

"Very accurate so far. What's Armand?"

Grantaire considered briefly; "Hhhmmm . . . you, my friend, are a classic racehorse man."

"So who's my ideal woman if Olympia's not?"

Grantaire scanned the audience and then pointed to a woman in the left hand box nearest the stage. "Her"

Rougemont looked up to examine Grantaire's paragon. The woman was standing with her hands on the ledge of the box, looking down into the orchestra pit. Stately, proud and above average height, Rougemont could not deny that she was a striking presence; she had 'gueule' in the vulgar parlance. But . . Beautiful? Rougemont would not have called her that. Yes, she had fine, pale skin, well shaped eyes and mouth, and hair of that pretty reddish-brown which, on a spaniel, is unflatteringly known as liver. But the face was sharp, quick and fox-like, the eyes glittered and pierced and the mouth was beginning to develop ironical lines of amusement. She was dressed severely in a gown of dark grey silk and wore no jewellery save a diamond at her breast and another fixed in her hair. Frankly, Rougemont couldn't see the attraction.

Courfeyrac, however, was grinning; "Yes, yes – you've got me there! For once one of your stupid theories is – not so stupid after all."

"Who is she?"

"You don't know, Joseph? That's the Countess Chagny."

"The one that the show – all Montenotte's shows – are dedicated to?"

"Yes."

"Can't see why. She looks terrifying – bet she's a witch!"

Grantaire laughed so hard at this remark that he spat out a mouthful of orange. A pretty grisette in the seat in front tuned and glared at him.

"Oooh, I think she like you!" mocked Rougemont. It was going to be a good evening, he reflected. Curtain up in two minutes and what could possibly go wrong? He looked around. Joly smiled, Bahorel waved, Jehan read his program oblivious. And there was no Enjolras. It suddenly hit him that an evening organised exclusively to monitor subversive student was missing the leader of one of the most active groups of subversives in Paris! It had all been going so well, too. Rougemont had been so pleased. Javert, Simonet and the Prefect had been so pleased with him. He should have know that it couldn't last, that things would go wrong, that it was a fundamentally stupid idea in the first place.

Joseph scarcely watched the play and remained in a gloomy mood when he assembled in the green room with the other agents in order to debrief. The rest of the men chattered amongst themselves, compared notes and cracked jokes

"Did you see.. ."

"I can die happy!"

"Incredible"

Finally Javert and Commissaire Simonet stepped into the centre of the room and looked around meaningfully. Gradually hush descended.

Both men must have said something, presumably about the evening. Rougemont was too miserable to concentrate. Them, because clearly the Fates felt he was not mortified enough, Javert gestured to him and said

"And I think congratulations are in order for young Rougemont here. For once I'm glad to have been proved wrong. Well done!"

Rougemont gave a blush of shame that his peers took for modesty and returned to studying his fingernails. He noticed, without particular interest, that a small party of waiters had been ushered into the room by a balding man with the physiognomy typical of Normandy.

"With the compliments of M Jospin and Mlle Olympia" said the Norman to Simonet as the waiters set down their platters.

"Well, well, well," said Javert with his mouth full, "it seems that virtue is rewarded in this life!"

A couple of the men snorted at this, but most were too busy eating.

Joseph closed his eyes in the hope that it might help him think better. He heard Jean-Marie laugh loudly, someone drop a glass and the swish of a silk skirt, decided that the clarity of his thought had not improved but that he could not be bothered to open his eyes, so stayed as he was. Then he heard a woman singing, accompanied lightly on the rather clapped out piano in the corner. He did not recognise the song (something in English) but he did recognise the voice. He remembered the first time he had heard it – he had gone to the theatre with his aunt Claudette when he was fourteen. And, although he had never been a fan, it was still one of the most distinctive voices in Paris.

He looked up, but instead of the piquant splendour of the courtesan Gloriana, he saw the woman in the grey dress, Grantaire's racehorse, La Comtesse de Chagny. It took a little while for Rougemont to put two and two together. He had know that Gloriana had left the stage to wed someone upper-crust, but he had been sure that the lucky man was the banker Chateauneuf.

Diverted from his brooding, he moved slightly closer. The Countess had been joined by Minot.

"Does Madame la Comtesse not have a piano at home?" Minot said in voice that showed he was nervous of his joke.

"There's no need to 'Countess' me, Chretien. Any requests?"

"I am sure that Madame does not remember my favourite."

"Indeed Madame does." She said, beginning to play. It was one of Montenotte's songs – a very successful one.

"Attendons que ma joie reviens

Et que se meurt le souvenir

De cet amour de tant de peine

Qui n'en finit pas de mourir.

Avant de me dire 'je t'aime'

Avant que je puisse te le dire

Attondons que ma joie reviens

Qu'un matin je puisse sourire."

Rougemont noticed the Inspector approach the piano. Although he came from behind, the Countess stopped playing and turned while he was still at least four paces away. Minot tipped his hat to the lady and left them, coming to stand by Rougemont.

Javert bowed deeply and respectfully.

"Madame la Comtesse."

"Monsieur L'Inspecteur" replied the Countess with a slight curtsy. For a moment she looked as if she was going to shake his hand, but instead she sat down and began to play again.

"Before you can say 'come' and 'go'

And breath twice, ad cry 'so, so'

Each on tripping on his toe

Will be here with mop and mow

Do you love me, master? – "

"No" interrupted Javert dryly

"Ah, well! How very tragic for me! All the same, I hope I find you well?"

"Very. And Madame la Comtesse? She is certainly no more sensible than when last we met."

"She is well – and grown used to _charming_ men over the last two years, Inspector. Eugene sends his regards, by the way."

"How is Eugene?"

"He's – he's Eugene, as infuriating as ever! How's his successor?

"Coco-Lacour? He's as much of a rogue as ever."

"Well, I think you'll be seeing a bit less of him soon, and a bit more of Eugene. On that note, very well done!"

"On tonight?"

"Yes, but that wasn't what I meant. Commissaire Javert! I'm very, very pleased for you. Has a nice ring to it 'Commissaire Javert'. When does Simonet step down?"

"He's going to live with a nephew in Antibes, for the good of his health, in July. I take up the post in August."

"They get on well," Rougemont remarked to Minot in a surprised tone.

"Hhhmm, after a fashion. Try one of these," said the older man, gesturing to a half empty platter.

"What do you mean by that, Chretien?"

"Well, listen to them now."

"No it wasn't!" the Inspector could be heard saying in an exasperated voice.

"Yes, it was."

"I tell you it wasn't"

Clearly Nana and Javert, in the manner of long married couples or siblings, expressed their regard for each other by quarrelling.

"You're wrong, you know – Ah, Good Evening Auguste!"

They had been joined by Pontellier, who was looking at Javert in the manner that a possessive child looks at a parent audacious enough to make a fuss of a visiting cousin. The Countess, feeling the look and with the tact of an ambassador, laid her hand on Pontellier's arm and said;

"Come with me, Auguste. I've been wanting to talk with you all night.

They walked off and Rougemont, now eavesdropping shamelessly, followed them.

"Two years, Nana, and you're still every inch a courtesan!" Pontellier remarked in a tone that may or may not have been waspish.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"That diamond – a beauty patch if ever I saw one! I can hardly keep my eyes from looking down your dress!"

"Well if _you_ can hardly help it then it must be working! How's your little gypsy?"

"Well."

"I'm very envious, you know."

"Of him?"

"Of you. How you managed to find the only man in Paris more beautiful than you is quite beyond me. Those eyes . . "

"And how is your husband, Madame?" said Pontellier with a laugh.

"Fine. Though I've had a ghastly night. Some people who own land next to out estate in the Midi were in town and, of course, Marc insisted on inviting them. Quite dull! I've been entertaining the son – insufferable pup but very handsome."

"You've not changed a bit!"

"That's what our dear Commissaire-in-waiting said earlier. Now, if you'll excuse me my dear, there's still one person I'd like to speak to before I go tonight."

Rougemont noticed with surprise the she was heading towards him, but assumed that she had come to speak to Minot again until he felt a grey gloved hand alight on his arm.

"Joseph Rougemont – am I right?"

He nodded. Close to, her resemblance to a fox was even more striking.

"I've heard a lot about you – most of it good. How long have you been working for the Dab?"

Rougemont looked a little taken aback and the woman continued; "What's up lad? You can tell Nana. Actually, on second thoughts, don't – let me guess! A young man named Enjolras – am I right?"

He nodded stupidly as if he had just seen her perform a rather impressive card trick.

"Well, I would worry about that if I were you. Look at his."

She handed him a programme. A blank back page was covered with notes headed 'Report on one Honore Enjolras"' in the same light and decisive hand as the two letters.

"I got you this too," she said, flicking to another page where it said, in hesitant script 'To dear Joseph, kisses, Olympie Satre'

Joseph grinned the grin of Grantaire in a wine cellar.

"Now," said Nana, closing his hand around the programme, "best not tell the Dab about this – he wouldn't like it if I were still 'in practise' so to speak. Thinks I'm respectable. Anyway, he'd probably confiscate it as evidence! Now run along with you, child!"

She smiled and, just for a moment, Joseph thought he could see what Courfeyrac and Pontellier had been getting at. But maybe this was only because everything was suddenly looking so rosy. He had something to celebrate now – and he was going to do it with claret.


End file.
